February 28, 2019
Today marks the first anniversary of my grandmother’s last day on Earth. That evening she ate dinner and drank a Bud Light Lime–we know this because of the empty bottle perched on the kitchen counter, waiting to be recycled. Shortly before midnight, she commented on her granddaughter’s Facebook post. Sometime between 11:14 p.m. and the next morning, she passed away. Only 5 days before, she had eaten spaghetti at my dining room table and listened to me talk about being a mother.
My grandmother was a woman of relatively few words–fewer still because emphysema claimed most of her lung capacity. Instead, she listened, she laughed, she loved, and she took care of people. My memories of her also feel spare because they are so simple: her making coffee on camping trips, wiping her kitchen tablecloth with a dishrag, clapping her hands once when she laughed, letting her golden retriever lick the ice cream bowl clean. When I was a teenager, I longed for something more special in our relationship, some sort of affirmation that I was special to her. But birthdays came and went, as did my Confirmation, graduations, wedding and baby shower, and all of the cards read much the same: God Bless, Gramma Dot. Six days before her last, she called for directions to my house, and I shared a trick with her to help her remember which turns to take (and which to skip). “Hey, that does work! You’re a smart girl!” she said.
So, even though she saved all manner of “practical” things (Tupperware, milk jugs, egg cartons, clippings of newspaper comics) and had a large collection of beanie babies, I was surprised to learn after her death that my grandmother had kept a memory box and it included my high school graduation announcement. At her funeral, my uncle slipped me an envelope he had found in the memory box. In it was a copy of an essay I had written in 5th or 6th grade, shortly after her emphysema diagnosis, about how my grandparents’ and one or two others’ smoking habits had impacted me. (My father had found the essay and encouraged me to send copies to my grandparents.)
Somehow, the fact that Grandma had tucked away my essay in her box of photographs, graduation announcements, and letters from my grandfather delivered thirty years of affirmation in a single moment. I felt a closeness to her that has spilled over into each of the days since. I look for her in the joyful moments. I channel her when life is hard when mothering is hard.
So organize your house. De-clutter. Get rid of the milk jugs and egg cartons (or don’t–your children will want something to heckle you about in 20 years). But keep the letters, an art project, an essay. Hang the scribbles on the fridge. Cheer embarrassingly loud. Find a way to affirm your kids, your siblings, your best friends unexpectedly today.
